


After the bite

by Mycroffed



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, M/M, WereJohn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:43:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mycroffed/pseuds/Mycroffed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Name: John Watson<br/>Diagnosis: bitten by a werewolf and therefor a werewolf yourself<br/>Situation: shoulder bleeding, texted your best friend Greg Lestrade for help, no doubt he's on his way. You're part of a bigger sceme, 5 people have already died from a werewolf wound. You could die as well.<br/>What to do: act normal. You know Lestrade very well, you studied with him. Trust your instincts, they'll tell you what to do.<br/>Good luck, I hope you survive.<br/>John Watson</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The bite

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been obsessed with werewolves, so it was only logical that I tried writing some werejohn. I hope you enjoy it, and don't hesitate to leave comments.  
> Werejohn was flyingrotten's idea.

There was always a song in John's head. It matched his mood more often than it did not and today wasn't any different. Coming back from a party with some friends, John was still hearing the last song they played in his head.  
 _So wake me up when it's all over_  
 _When I'm wiser and I'm older_  
He hummed as he continued to walk home. He hadn't really counted the pints he had had, but his legs and his sence of balance told him it had been too many.  
Knowing the way instinctively, John turned left into the dark alleyway where he lived. He'd rented it for the few weeks he'd be in London on holiday. In exacly two days he'd be in Afghanistan again, along with the rest of his squad. They had invited him in the villa they'd rented, but he had refused, wanting to take a break from being a soldier and being around his soldier mates. In that house, he couldn't be himself and here, he could. Here, no-one would judge him if he watched Doctor Who on the telly, or if he talked to himself when he was thinking. Here, he could order take-away at three in the morning, just because he felt like it. Here, he could sing whenever he wanted, not having to worry wether the others liked it or not.  
Absently, his hand went through his hair. It was unusually long for a soldier. Normally, a soldier had millimetered hair, while John's was almost a centimeter long. John had always liked his hair and he was one of the few to refuse to shave it off when they signed up for the army.  
In the dark alley, he thought he saw something move, something large, with big red eyes.  
A bit uncomfartably, John started to wistle a song he had written for himself a long time ago when he got scared in the dark.  
 _If you're scared in the dark, you should wistle._  
 _In the attic, in the cellar, in the hall._  
Foot after foot, John managed to get to his flat, open his door and get inside, where the assuring light surrounded him.

*

John had been packing all day when he had decided it had been enough for one day. He would have plenty of time tomorrow to pack the last things he needed.  
Just when he had installed himself on his couch, Greg Lestrade texted him.  
 _Just handeled SH rather succesfully, fancy a drink? - Greg_  
John had known Greg since they had been at uni toghether. Greg was a young detective-inspector at Scotland Yard and even though he was vey good at his job, he always managed to get the most complicated and weird cases that needed a slightly superior brain. And Greg had found that brain in the form of Sherlock Holmes. John didn't know him very well, since he had never met him and only knew what Greg had told him. What he did know was that he was a terrible man to be around, egoistic and always looking for compliments. He also looked down on anyone who wasn't him. Every member of Greg's team seemed to hate him, but Greg had told John repeatedly that he couldn't solve those cases without the help of Sherlock Holmes.  
 _At our usual, in fifteen minutes? JW_  
When they'd been at uni, John and Greg had done this on a weekly basis, always in the same pub, always the same order. Never any seconds, always just the one drink while thay talked about their week.  
 _I'll be there - Greg_  
So John quickly looked for his wallet, found it somewhere behind the couch - how had it gotten there? - and left his home.  
While he jogged through the streets of London, John started to imagine the conversation they'd have. He knew it would end up going totally different, but at least it kept him busy.

Greg was already sitting at their usual table when John got there. He waved his hand to get John's attention and pointed at the chair opposite him.  
They greeted each other and ordered the same drinks once again. The conversation was one between friends who knew each other very well, but didn't meet that regularly. After asking how life was, how the cases were going and if John was enjoying his weeks off, the subject took a rather sinister turn.  
Greg was working on a case with a serial killer who left his casualties in a dark alley, bitten by an animal, most of the time around the shoulder, bleeding to death. He suspected it might be a werewolf, no matter what his brain said about their existance, but Sherlock was sceptic about that idea.  
John seemed rather interested in the werewolf affair, so that encouraged Greg to keep talking about it. The subject shifted to the legends that surrounded werewolves and even though he'd never admit it, John was genuinly scared when he left for home again.

*

John felt terribly vulnerable as he walked through the streets of London on his own. Even when he was safe in the light of the street lantarns, he couldn't stop wistling. Every shadow seemed suspicious, every movement like a murderer, coming out to get him.  
'Awooooooooooooo!'  
Was that a wolf he'd just heard? John turned aroundin the direction of the sound. There was a shape on the roof, but it was too far away for him to make something of it. The noise, though, had sent a shiver through him. Of all the moments this could have happened, today was probably the worse.  
John started to jog again, in an attempt to get home as soon as possible. He tried to keep an eye on the silhouet on the roof, but as soon as he turned right, the roof got out of his sight.  
In an attempt to make sure someone would come looking for him if something happened to him, John texted Greg.  
 _Scared, really scared. Just heard a wolf. If I don't text you I got home safe in 5 minutes, please come and check on me. JW_  
He put his mobile back in his pocket and continued to jog. He ran from street to street, always looking over his shoulder, trying to find this wolf-thing. Every second he thought he saw something move, something lurke in the shadows and every time it was just his imagination.  
'I shouldn't have drunk so much,' John murmured to himself. 'Now my imagination is playing tricks on me.'  
John slowed down again. It was just his imagination, he kept repeating, like a mantra. If he thought it enough, it must become true. He walked around the corner of Baker Street, four blocks away from his own street. He was close. Even if this wolf was real - which it wasn't - he would be safe very, very soon.  
But then he heard it again. The wolf. Closer this time, like it was just around the corner, or somewhere on the roof, waiting for him. John looked up, his eyes searching for the creature. Every shadow, every dark corner, every place was scanned by John's eyes when he went past them, running like he'd die if he didn't.  
He was finally almost home, it was just a few feet to his front door, when John bumped into someone. John had been looking over his shoulder and didn't notice the enormous man in front of him - how did he not notice?  
John immedeately started to make an apologie: 'I'm sorry, I truly am...' but he couldn't finish his sentence before the man changed.

*

Greg recieved an odd mesage from John. _Scared, really scared. Just heard a wolf. If I don't text you I got home safe in 5 minutes, please come and check on me. JW_ What the hell could he do with that? They had agreed jokingly that there wasn't a thing like werewolves, that it was just his imagination, playing tricks and trying to make something logical out of the facts he'd collected over the different cases.  
Greg immedeately checked the details of the text. Sent three minutes ago. He had time. John had time. John would text, Greg convinced himself. John would never scare a friend like that.  
Four minutes.  
It was probably just a joke, an attempt to wind Greg up. Well, John had bloody well succeeded. Greg started to worry. But what if it hadn't been, what if John Watson was really in danger? No, it couldn't possibly be. John was a fighter, always had been, even at uni. John, please text me you're safe, please.  
Five minutes.  
It was enough, Greg had had it. He pulled out his mobile again and texted John.  
 _You okay? Do I need to come and look after you like a baby? - Greg_  
Greg hoped the joke would help, would convince John to quit messing around, because this had been ridiculous. But no, no such luck.  
So Greg, worried out of his skull, followed the route his friend had run earlier.

*

It started with his eyes. They grew, and soon they looked like they would pop out of the man's head, like a big, yellow iris that seemed to reflect the light. To fit his eyes, his eyes socket changed. And then his cheek bones, and his entire head. It had become a head of a wolf. A wolf.  
John panicked. So it was true what Greg had said, werewolves did exist.  
The wolfman stepped forward, the transformation complete for now.  
John's soldier instincts kicked in. He raised his hands in a defensive position, ready to punch the man anywhere if necessairy. He doubted it would have any effect, since the man was a big collection of muscles, but at least he was ready to try.  
The wolf howled again. But this time, it sounded more like laughing.  
John got distracted. Was is man laughing at him? No he couldn't be. He was a wolf and there was a frightened man in front of him, prepared for anything.  
The man took another step in John's direction.  
'I... I... I warn you!' John shouted. 'I'm armed.' He had just remembered the gun in the back of his trousers. He took it out and aimed it at the wolf.  
The wolf laughed again.  
And then, everything became a blur. The man moved with inhuman speed and stood behind John for a second. John turned around and shot the wolf in his chest.  
The wolf looked at his wound. There was blood. Not as much as with a normal human, but it was hurt.  
A smile appeared on John's face.  
But then the blood stopped coming out, way too soon. The wound had started closing. It wasn't possible, but John saw before his eyes how the recovering body of the werewolf pushed the bullet out, like nothing had happened.  
The smile vanished.  
All there was left to do was turn and run, what was exactly what John did.  
As soon as John turned his back to the creature, he felt an immense pain in his shoulder, like thousand teeth where tearing away his flesh. He looked at his shoulder and saw the wolf head round it. He was bitten, he realised. He'd soon die, like all the others. The wolf let go of the shoulder. The pain exploded in his brain. There was nothing he could think about exept 'man, it hurts. A lot.'  
And now his doctor skills turned out to be usefull. John ripped of his jacket and pressed it to the wound. There was no way he could aply enough pressure to the wound to make it stop bleeding, since he twinched when he just touched it, but it was something to do.  
With one hand on his shoulder, he grabbed his mobile and tried to send a text to Greg.  
 _Bitten. Hlp ma. Almpst hom. Jw_  
The text was sent and then John fainted.

*

Greg ran. Even more, he sprinted the entire way. John hadn't answered his text, which worried him, because John always answered his texts.  
He had heard a wolf, the text had said. But what if he hadn't. They had just been talking to each other about werewolves and it could possibly be his imagination playing him. But John was a soldier. He was used to combat and he'd never hear something that wasn't there, just because that could kill him in an actual warlike situation.  
There was another text from John. _Bitten. Hlp ma. Almpst hom. Jw_  
It had been written in a hurry, that much was obvious, so John must have been in danger or trying to type without looking at his screen. They'd been laughing about how rubbish he was at that earlier this evening.  
Greg read the text again. Bitten. Like, by a wolf? That... No... That wasn't possible, that could not be possible. Werewolves didn't exist. It just could not be.  
Greg pushed his body to run even harder than it already was. But it was of no use, John had already been bitten, and if this was anything like the other cases, John would soon die. Greg slowed down. He was around the courner of where John lived. He stopped, not wanting to see John lie there, dying. Nope, not something he'd like to witness.  
Greg sat down on the pavement, thinking about John. Before John had decided to study at Bart's, he had studied criminology fir a semester, like Greg had. The only difference was that Greg completed it and John studied medicin. But they stayed friends. Every week, every friday evening, they met in a pub and told each other about their week. About girls they were dating, teachers who were irritating, assesments that needed to be done.  
Greg heard a groan, coming from the street. He jumped up again and ran to where the sound was. John Watson, one of his best friends, could still be alive.

*

John woke up, still lying on the ground, with his hand on his wound, but he had no idea how he'd gotten there. And then he noticed a piece of paper in his hand.

_Your name: John Watson_   
_Diagnosis: bitten by a werewolf and therefor a werewolf yourself_   
_Situation: shoulder bleeding, texted your best friend Greg Lestrade for help, no doubt he's on his way. You're part of a bigger sceme, 5 people have already died from a werewolf wound. You could die as well._   
_What to do: act normal. You know Lestrade very well, you studied with him. Trust your instincts, they'll tell you what to do._   
_Good luck, I hope you survive._   
_John Watson_


	2. Questions

There he was. John Watson, lying on the ground, bleeding to death. If Greg didn't act quickly, he'd die. So he phoned an ambulance.  
After that, he ran over to John, who was surprisingly conscious.  
'Ah, Lestrade,' he smiled. 'You turned up after all.'  
Greg noticed John still had his hand on his shoulder, like he was trying to make it stop bleeding.  
'Can I...' Greg mumbled. 'Can I see you wound?'  
John nodded. He lowered his hand.  
'John...' He stammered. The wound had been bleeding a lot, obviously, looking at all the blood around it and on John's jacket, but it was almost closed. Greg could almost see it heal in front of his eyes. 'That's not possible, it's just not possible.'  
'What is? What's wrong?' John sat up, like he didn't even have a wound. He tried to look at his shoulder, but got stuck when he saw all the blood. 'Wow, I must have had a large wound. But why...? Why doesn't it hurt?'  
'That's because there's no wound, John.'  
'No wound? So this is not my blood?'  
'No, it is, but the wound already healed.'  
John tried to wrap his mind around that. 'That... That... It's not... No... I can't have...'  
'John, you texted me about a wolf. What do you remember?'  
'A... A wolf? Er... I don't remember any wolves around me recently. I... Er... I must have blacked out. I can't... I can't remember anything.' John started to rub his forehead, as if that would help bring his memory back.  
'John. John, look at me.' He looked up. 'It's okay, that you don't remember. It'll come back, don't worry about it. All you have to worry about is getting you safely into bed.'  
John nodded again. He looked relieved.  
'Let's get you up there,' Greg said while he was putting his arm around John's shoulder, very carefully, and tried to lift him onto his feet.  
They walked to the door of John's flat, into the flat, into John's bathroom.  
'I hope you can wash yourself? I'll be on the other side of the door if you need me.'  
John nodded as Greg left the room, leaving John alone with his thoughts.

*

As soon as Lestrade left the room, John turned to the mirror. How the hell did he survive? He'd seen this much blood on a person before, but all of them had been dead. So why wasn't he? He started to undress. He took off his bloody shirt, careful around the wound, revealing an immense scar. There was a circle on his shoulder, obviously from the teeth of the wolf and from that circle, lines ran in almost every direction. He had no idea where they came from, but it made the scar look very impressive. It was still red though, so it couldn't have healed long ago. But if what Lestrade had said was right, he had been bitten earlier this night. No human being could have healed this quickly. So, what if he wasn't human anymore?  
And what the hell had happened when he looked at Lestrade? It was like a different part of his mind, a new part, analised him as if he was a victim. Words had appeared next to his head.  
 _Copper_  
 _Young_  
 _Strong_  
 _Wouldn't survive for sure_  
 _Leave him_  
What did they mean? Would he do this with everyone he'd meet from now on? There were so many questions and only one man could anwser them. The man who turned him.  
Lestrade had left a fresh shirt and some new trousers so he could change in the bathroom before he left. John changed and climbed out of his bathroom window, for once not afraid to fall.

*

Greg was worried. John had lost his memory about what happened last night, maybe about even more. John never called Greg Lestrade, so why had he started doing this?  
He went back outside, looking for clues on the scene of the attack. There was a bullet, not bloody, but clearly fired tonight. At the other side of the street, there was a puddle of blood, where John was bitten.  
He couldn't do this on his own. Not when John was the victim. Not John. So he did the most logical thing: he texted Sherlock.  
New accident in the werewolf case. Interested? - Lestrade  
He didn't need to wait long for an answer.  
Where? -SH  
Sherlock Mews -Lestrade  
The ambulance arrived. Greg took them up to get John Watson, who, even though his wound was healed, was in need of medical attention. When he knocked on the bathroom door, there was no reaction.  
'John?' He called out. 'John, are you there?'  
Still no reaction.  
Lestrade opened the door, only to find an empty bathroom with an open window. Greg sighed. 'John, what have you done?'

Just after Greg had sent the ambulance away, Sherlock arrived.  
'Where is the victim?' He asked.  
'Well...' Greg said. 'He escaped.'  
'He... So he's still alive?'  
'He is.'  
'And how exactly did he do that?'  
'That's why I asked you to come over.'  
That was all Sherlock needed. He looked around the street, crouching in various places, doing things only he understood.  
'So, what do you have?' Asked Lestrade when Sherlock walked over to him.  
'The victim was young, judging by the taste of his blood, still a lot of white bloodcells. He is strong, because he lost a lot of blood over there. It is a similar wound like all the others, but this one already healed, since you moved him without leaving a bloodtrail, except on your jacket. He also is a doctor, because there is a jacket, also with a lot of blood, obviously pressed to the wound, but there was no-one else here, so it was the victim himself. Only a doctor would think of administering first aid in a situation like this. He also is a soldier, because no-one else would have a gun in his pocket and shoot it at someone who attacked him. He is close to you, because you could have deduced all of this yourself, maybe you where there when it happened, but you could not stand the idea of looking for clues on a crime scene that involved one of your best friends.'  
'You're right. John Watson, the victim, is about thirty, not long graduated as a doctor from Bart's and now a soldier who was on leave from a six month mission in Afghanistan. I moved him to his house, which is just over there, a few feet of where he was attacked. I found him pressing his jacket on his shoulder, almost unconscious, waiting for me. We had had a meeting earlier tonight and I told him about my case. He was scared when he went home and he texted me. He is my best friend. Anything else you want to know?'  
'No. Show me his house.'  
After those words, Greg took Sherlock inside.

*

John had managed to climb onto the roof and now stood there waiting. He heard the ambulance arriving, Lestrade talking to them, taking them inside, only to discover he was gone.  
The world was too loud for John's ears. He heard every sigh on the street below him, every heartbeat of the sleeping humans in the building below him. It was not possible. No-one was supposed to hear like this. Nobody was supposed to hear the cars on the M1.  
He heard the man running long before he could see him. He ran from Baker Street, all the way here. Someone must have called him. Lestrade, of course.  
No greeting between the two men, but neither of them was surprised about it, like it had been this way for ages.  
'Where is the victim?' The man asked.  
That was him, John realised. He was here because of what happened to him. Maybe he had answers. He contemplated going down to see the man, but he decided against it. The biggest chance of finding the other one was by staying here on the roof.  
Lestrade and the man continued their conversation for about a minute and then they turned silent. At least they stopped talking. Now John heard the man hovering over the scene, mumbling to himself, not loud enough for Lestrade to hear it.  
And then the smell hit him. The man smelled like excitement. How could John smell how a man felt? It was impossible. But John had used that word for so many thing this night, maybe he was just an impossible being.  
And then there he was, the man John was looking for: the werewolf.

*

Sherlock ran around the flat. Everything told him something about its owner and everthing that lacked from the room did as well. John had been packing. When Sherlock looked at the suitcase, Lestrade told him John was supposed to go back to Afghanistan tomorrow.  
That's not gonna happen, Sherlock thought. I'm not going to let this one go, not the one survivor.  
When he entered the bathroom and noticed the open window, Sherlock immediately knew where he would find this John. On the roof.

*

'So you survived. Well done.'  
'Who are you?' John asked. 'And why me?'  
'Because you were in my path and I thought maybe you'd survive the process.'  
'What process?'  
'Like you don't know. Of becoming a werewolf, stupid.'  
'So I'm a werewolf now?'  
'Almost. You haven't changed yet. It'll come soon.'  
'Why do I hear so much better than before? And why did my smell improve?'  
'John, there are a couple of things you should know about werewolves. They're part human, part wolf. So it's only logical that they, natural predators as they are, have improved senses. Now it's night, but you'll see tomorrow that your vision has improved as well. It's the wolf inside you.'  
'Why were you surprised that I survived it?'  
'Because your words told me you could be strong enough, but there was still a chance you might've died. It's never without risks, turning someone.'  
'But why?'  
'Because that's what werewolves do!' Shouted the werewolf. 'Sorry, lost my temper for a second.'  
'You said something about the words, what are they?'  
'Oh God, I picked a fool. The words. You already saw them. With the copper? Remember? Yes?'  
John nodded.  
'Those are your wolfinstincts telling you who you should pick for dinner and who you should try to change. They'll pop up once in a while, when you're close the changing, or at least in the beginning. When you're older, you'll be able to control it.'  
'Control what? The words or the transformation?'  
'Both.'  
'So what happens with me now?'  
'You go to Afghanistan tomorrow and you change there for the first time and kill a lot of enemies doing it. It'll be fun, trust me, you'll love it.'  
'How do you know?'  
'Because I've already done it.' And then he left.  
'Wait!' John shouted. 'I don't even know your name!'  
'You'll discover it soon enough.'

John turned around. He had some answers now, but there were still a lot of questions. His name, for instance, the change, Afghanistan, killing, feeding. Does he only eat raw meat now? Or can he eat human food as well?  
The Other was right. He'd discover it soon enough.  
'John?'  
John looked up. The man from the alley was here. He still smelled like excitement, but there was more to it. He also smelled like fresh ovenbaked cookies, accompanied by a cup of tea. He kind of smelled like the home John wished he had.  
'John, I'm Sherlock Holmes. I'm here to help you. Step away from the side of the roof.'  
He did stand on the edge of the roof. He hadn't even noticed it. He smiled as he stepped away.  
'Now come here,' Holmes said.  
John did what he asked, he realised it was for the best. Plus, he'd give anything to be with this homesmelling person.  
As soon as he came within reach of Holmes, he grabbed John by the wrist and dragged him downstairs. There stood a perplexed Lestrade.  
'Why,' he said, 'would you follow Sherlock Holmes downstairs if you wanted to kill yourself. Sherlock Holmes of all people.'  
'He smells like home, like cookies and tea. Haven't you noticed?' John had already forgotten how weak human senses were. He was a werewolf for half an hour and already he had forgotten human things.  
'John, you are the first person that we know of to survive this kind of attack,' said Sherlock. 'We could bring you to a hospital or to Baskerville and let the scientist examine you and treat you like an animal, or you could come with me. I would do some experiments on you, but you'd be free to come and go whenever you want, you'd be a roommate, not a prisoner.'  
'What do you want to ask?'  
'John, will you move in with me?'


	3. The change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to write this chapter. I had a bit of a writer's block for this fic. I'll try to write the next one quicker? Anyway, I hope you enjoy it.

'Okay.'  
'What?' Sherlock said. He had expected it would take a lot more convincing to make John move in with him.  
'Okay, I'll move in with you.'  
'Do you know what you're getting yourself into?' asked Lestrade.  
'He smells like home to me, Lestrade, how bad can he be?'  
Sherlock noticed the little shock that went through Lestrade when John said his name. There was something he was not telling him. He chose to ignore it for now.  
'Very well then, I'll see you at seven p.m.' Sherlock turned around and started to walk away.  
John smiled. 'So that's it then?'  
'That's what?' Sherlock asked.  
'We've only just met and now we're going to look at a flat together. And I don't even know your name. Or the adress.'  
'The name is Sherlock Holmes.' Sherlock looked one more time at John. 'And the adress is 221B Baker Street.'

*

John just kept smiling. He stood there, in the middle of his flat - his old flat, he corrected himself - and just smiled for a couple of minutes. It felt right, moving in with Sherlock Holmes. Not only did the man smell like home, it was what the words said: Home.  
Even though John was very glad to have found his home, he was still worried: the Other One said the words only appeared when he was close to changing and that was not something he wanted to do when he had visitors.  
'Lestrade. I need you to go.'  
Lestrade looked up, surprised, like he hadn't seen that coming.  
'I need to pack for Baker Street.' John's smile turned into a grin. He was ready for this change.  
'Are you sure you want to do this?' Lestrade asked again. 'And don't say he smells like home, that's not an argument.'  
'Yes.'  
'You barely know him, John. And look at you: in one night, you've been bitten by a werewolf, saved from jumping of a roof and now you're moving in with a stranger. Whatever that bite did to you, it better bring you back very soon!'  
Lestrade marched out of the flat.  
That's a bit weird, John thought, normally Lestrade wasn't like that. But then again, John didn't really know how Lestrade was supposed to be, because no matter how hard he had tried to hide it, John couldn't remember anyone. Events, stories, moments in his past, no problem, but just don't ask after any acquaintances. He only knew about Lestrade because of the letter.  
The letter! Why did he forget that? John got it out of his pocket, where he had put it after reading it, and touched the writing. It was his writing. He must have forgotten he'd written it. When could John have possibly written it? But it didn't matter, not now. John had found his home now and everything would be alright.

*

Sherlock was very interested in John. Not only was he the only known victim of the werewolf, he also had been kind to Sherlock, even after what must have been one hell of a night. He had heard the remarks of the young man about his smell, but he would not let himself believe it for a second. Like he could be a home to anyone. Lestrade had been right. John should never have agreed to move in.  
Why had it gone so quickly. John was supposed to think it through and decline, like all the other, more sensible candidates had done. Now Sherlock would just sit there in the flat, waiting for John to realise he couldn't live there with a man who was terrible to live with. Sherlock didn't let the outside-world know how he felt - good god, they could have thought he was a human with actual feelings - or what he wanted. The only people Sherlock had contact with on a regular basis were his brother because Mammie made him and Lestrade, because he needed Sherlock's help. He didn't have any friends and he wasn't intending of gaining any soon. No, Sherlock would tell John tomorrow evening that it had been a mistake and that he couldn't move into Baker Street. He just couldn't.

*

John felt very happy when he woke up the next morning. He had had a good night's sleep and for the first time in ages, he actually felt hungry. He felt like he could eat a whol horse if someone gave him the opportunity. He jumped up from his bed and walked over to his fridge, who was surprisingly empty.  
'Right,' he remembered. 'I was supposed to go back to Afghanistan today. That's why there's barely any food left, except some chocolate spread and some toast.' He had always liked toast expecially when it was covered in melted chocolate spread.  
While he was eating his toast, he also remembered the previous day. How he had been attacked by the werewolf and how he had survived. How he had been invited to share a flat with Sherlock Holmes, the man who had been contacted by Lestrade.  
And there he hit a sore point.  
John could perfectly remember all the times he and Lestrade had had a drink, but he had forgotten how he adressed him - probably not 'Lestrade' judging by his reaction late that night - or how their relationship worked. John doubted they were a couple, but they could have been friends. Counting the many times they had had a pint together, John suspected they were rather good friends, maybe even best friends. How he was going to act like one,p he had no idea. Maybe he could start by calling Lestrade 'Greg'.  
John said it a few times. Greg. It felt weird in his mouth, like it wasn't natural.  
'Would a text help Greg get over his absurd outburst of irritation?' John wondered.  
'Probably,' his mind answered.  
 _Good morning. Want to have a drink? JW_  
Lestra - Greg, John corrected himself - didn't text back. That was not his habit, was it? John decided he had to go over to Greg in case he was still mad because of his rude 'go away' from last night. Maybe he should appologize. He sent a text to warn him and ordered a taxi.

*

_Good morning. Want to have a drink? JW_  
What was that supposed to mean? Greg had just woken up and tried to figure out what John had tried to achieve with this text. Not getting anywhere, Greg put his head back down and fell back asleep.

Five minutes later Greg woke up from another text.  
 _I'm coming over. JW_  
Greg panicked. John could arrive any minute! And he was still in bed! He jumped up, put on some clothes and brushed his hair and his teeth. Convinced he looked presentable, he went into his kitchen and made himself breakfast.  
Still chewing on his sandwich, the bell rang. He walked to the door, already knowing who'd be there.  
'Good morning, John,' he said, not looking up from his suddenly very interesting sandwich.  
'Hello, Greg.'  
He looked up. Was John back to normal? He had called him nothing but Lestrade last night. This was a good sign, definately. It was, right? Suddenly Greg started to worry. John could have figured out that Greg hadn't liked it when he was called 'Lestrade' so John could just be adapting to make sure he felt better. Maybe John was still the same.  
'Come in,' Greg said after a good minute of silence.  
'Thank you.' Greg took John's coat and dropped it in the spare bedroom on the bed. He didn't really have a closet where he had room for extra coats.  
Arriving in the kitchen, Greg realised he had obviously been eating.  
'Do you want something to eat?' He asked at the same time John said 'Did I wake you up?'  
'No, no you didn't,' Greg assured him. 'I was just eating. You want some?'  
'No thanks, unless you have something meaty?'  
Greg, being a vegetarian, had no meat anywhere in his house. He had to turn John down on that one.  
'It's okay,' John immediately answered. 'No problem.' He smiled.  
There was another silence. Greg didn't want to break it, scared of the conversation it might bring. John had something to tell him, that much was sure. God, had he changed already? Was he here to eat him? No, he wouldn't John would never do such a thing. But what if the John he knew really had died in that alley? What if John was changed forever and could never become 'his' John again? Greg's mind was going crazy.  
'Greg,' John said very quietly. 'About last night...'  
'Oh, did you mind I called Sherlock? He was on the case of the werewolf victims. And I thought he might be interested and stuff.'  
'No, I didn't.. I mean I don't. It's just... I might have been a little bit rude to you. And I'm sorry. It wasn't my intention.'  
Greg relaxed again. It was still his John. John could not live with himself unless he had apologised over and over again, even for the stuff he did not have to apologize for. He did not have to panic like he had. It was all fine.  
'So...' John started. 'Want to do something together today?'  
'I have to work. Sorry John.' Then Greg remembered. 'Weren't you supposed to go back to Afghanistan today?'  
John nodded. 'I called and told them I was injured, which isn't a lie, technically. I don't want to be with my mates when I change for the first time. I don't want to kill him. Actually, I just want to go far away, but then I thought, maybe Sherlock can help me. Help me controlling this wolf inside me. I have absolutely no idea what's going to happen to me and Sherlock just might know all the answers. Or at least he could find some of them.'  
'John...' Greg had no idea what to say.  
'Greg, I'm going to need some time to figure this all out. It's not that I don't want to be with you anymore, but I don't want to hurt you. Do you understand?' John looked at him with his puppyeyes. He was the only person who could change Greg's mind with puppyeyes.  
'Okay,' Greg said. 'I understand. You just want to protect me.'  
John nodded again. 'I'm so sorry, Greg. I have to go, I... I...'  
Greg looked in John's eyes and saw something yellow in his irises. It did not dissapear completely, but John seemed to have it under control, for now.  
Greg let the soldier out, sat back against his door and cried.

*

John had to get out, get into open air. He could feel the wolf, hungry, waiting to get out. Greg showed him the way out and John almost ran away as soon as he was outside. He ran to the park close to where Greg lived. The words had reappeared again, next to Greg's head, only this time there had been an extra line. _Eat him_. John was scared. The Other Wolf had said the words only appeared when he was close to changing. He wanted to get as far away from humans as possible. If he had to change, he would do so alone.  
He ran into the bushes and ripped his clothes off. He did not know what would happen, so he took some precautions. The wolf inside him growled. He was aware of his bones shifting, something that hurt. A lot. It felt like his bones were broken but they healed almost immediately but in the wrong way. Like a dislocated shoulder. His arms were covered in dark blonde hair. His hands had already turned into paws. John fell to the ground, unable to keep his balance on two feet. When his tail appeared, in his lower back, John let out a cry of agony.  
'AAAAARGHWHOOOOOO!'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry, but now that I'm working on my Potterlock AU, this fic has fallen quiet a bit. I will finish it, but it'll take some time. I'll do my best to post a chapter again as soon as possible, but I can't promise it'll be in the near future.  
> Sorry again.  
> X Mycroffed


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got no laptop this week so I've been writing when I was bored. So now I started to rewrite this old story fun fun. I hope you enjoy it!  
> Love, the Author

Greg, who was still crying over his lost friend, heard a cry. It sounded like John but at the same time it didn't. "AAAAARGHWHOOOOOO!" He jumped up, opened his door and ran outside. Normal people, the back of his mind said, would stay inside, where it was safe, where he could protect himself.

Greg almost hit himself, trying to get that annoying voice to shut up. "I'm not leaving him. He's my friend and right now, he needs my help." An old lady who was passing his house looked at him strangely. Greg really had to stop talking to himself... He mumbled his excuses and ran off in the direction of the sound.

It was not hard to find John. He had hidden himself close to the playground and some of the kids, who had heard the cry of the man, had gone investigating. Now, they came running back, screaming. Greg pulled his gun out, even though he really didn't want to, just to be sure. He could see a larg figure sitting, hiding behind the bushes.

"Oh, John," he mumbled. He dropped the gun and ran to his friend, taking him in his arms. '"John? John, are you alright?"

The werewolf looked up at him, his normally warm hazelbrown eyes now turned into a fiery yellow, glowing with hunger. His entire body was covered with a sandcolored fur, with some streaks of grey here and there. The limbs of the wolf were longer, seemed out of proportion, like someone had been pulling to get them in the right form. John was no longer a man, he was a wolf.

"John, can you hear me?" Greg realised it was a stupid question, since John's hearing must have become better since he was bitten.

He was quite surprised when the wolf in his lap nodded.

"Can you talk?"

John gave him a you've-got-to-be-kidding-me look. Greg grinned. This was his best friend. He'd never been gone, it just took a transformation to get him out again.

"Let's get you somewhere safe, somewhere you can't accidently hurt anyone." Greg helped the wolf up and started to walk back to his house.

As soon as John realised where they were going, he shook his head. _I am not going to your house, where you are alone and unprotected from me. I can still protect you_. He almost ran away again, but Greg had been in time to grab his by the fur in his neck and keep him close. Greg almost dragged him back to the house.

Once they had arrived back in the kitchen, he relaunched the question he had asked earlier: "Do you want anything?"

Even though John perfectly well knew Greg had no meat anywhere in the house, the wolf still nodded shyly. And that was what Greg had been hoping for.

"I'll go to the shop and get some. Be right back." He smiled assuringly.

The wolf sat down, struggling with where to leave his legs, but the message behind it was clear. _I'm not going anywhere._

Greg picked up his wallet and his phone and was off to the shop.

 

_*_

 

Sherlock was surprised to get a phonecall from Lestrade. He knew Sherlock preferred to text. "Yes. What?"

"It's John. He turned up at my house today, told me he was sorry about last night and then suddenly took off again, telling me he did not want to see me for a while, for my own good."

"You let him go?"

"Of course I did, but I also got him back, only... Only not in his normal form."

"He has changed?" Sherlock asked. That was good news. Now there were new data to collect and maybe.... Maybe he could finally find out who this killer was. "Can I come over? I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Yeah sure, but be carefull, I don't know how he is going to react."

Sherlock stopped the call to jump happily in the air, his hands clunched into fists. "Yes, five dead and now a survivor and a changer. It's Christmas!"

He dashed downstairs and ordered a taxi to Lestrade's house, not being able to wait even a second longer than necessairy.

 

*

 

When Greg returned to the house, John was still sitting in the same place as he'd left him. He looked a bit uncomfortable, but he seemed to do much better than before. John's eyes were actually shining again, with interest in life, something that had been missing when John talked about anything but the army.

"So I brought you some chicken, some beef, some lamb... Do you really want to eat all this?" Greg asked.

The wolf didn't do as much as open the packages and tear them apart before throwing the meat in his mouth. The wolf seemed to relax after his lunch. His limbs started to shorten, one way or another and slowly but surely, John started to look more like himself again, completely at rest.

"John, are you okay?" Greg asked, as soon as John was fully human again. "Do you want some clothes?"

John nodded. "That'd be really helpfull. I think I left mine in the park."

Just when Greg had left through the backdoor, the doorbell rang.

 

*

 

When John heard the doorbell ring, he thought for a minute about sneaking out, about running away from whoever this could be. It was probably someone like Anderson or Donovan, people he knew worked for Greg, but had never met before. But that was before the smell hit him. He knew the smell - it was the same as before - but it was stronger, somehow. It wasn't just biscuits and tea anymore, there was something else, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. He cursed to himself. Here he was, still naked, knowing who was at the other side of the front door and desperately wanting to see that man. He had never seen himself as gay, but the eagerness he was showing might be proof of something else. He whined softly to himself - a complaint about how his life had become so idiotic - before he got up, looked around for something to cover himself with and then walked to the front door, dressed in nothing but an apron.

He smiled as he opened the door. "Hello, Mr. Holmes."

The detective in the doorway nodded at him before he pushed him aside and walked in. "Where's Lestrade?"

"Out." John answered honestly. What else was he supposed to do?

"Doing what? He called me, he's supposed to be here." Sherlock had reached the kitchen now and John could almost smell his surprise as he realized that the man must've found the empty packages, pulled apart by a hungry wolf.

He turned towards him - John had subconsciously followed him - and asked - stated with a slight tone raise: "You did this?"

John nodded weakly, he felt a bit guilty about it, but he had not exactly been himself and most of all, he had been hungry.

"Amazing." Sherlock whispered to himself and he kneeled down next to the mess. He took a very close look at everything the wolf had done, from scratchmarks to bloody pawprints on the floor. When he noticed that the pawprints suddenly changed into handprints, he glanced over at John.

"Think you can change again?" He asked, curiosity glimmering in his eyes. This was a game for him, John realized, a puzzle which he has to solve.

But no, John didn't think he could change again - not on his own anyway - anytime soon. Maybe if he was triggered by something - food, the words, he had no idea, really - but he wasn't going to tell the detective that. He smirked slightly as disappointment filled the man's face. He was thinking about apologizing, but he wouldn't mean it, so what was the point exactly?

This situation went on for a bit longer - Sherlock kept staring at him, trying to see what would happen, John tried to ignore the man - until Greg came home. Thank god, John thought as he rushed to the DI. The man offered him clothes, which he gratefully took and then he disappeared to get dressed. When he entered the bathroom, he tried not to listen to the whispered conversation between the two men he had just left in the kitchen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll try to write another chater sometime next week, but you know, life's a bitch sometimes...  
> Thanks for reading, kudo'ing and commenting!  
> Love

Greg wasn't surprised to find Sherlock in his kitchen, hovering over the empty packages and staring at John's ass as he left to get dressed. He knew that the man was gay - or at least he had a strong suspicion - and he was glad that someone who seemed to have the same interests in mind, was paying attention to this mad genius.

John hadn't closed the door before Sherlock jumped up and whispered at him. "So what did he look like? How big was he? Was he coherent, could he still communicate with you or was the wolf instinct strong enough to take over?"

Greg had been suspecting these questions, but he had no idea why they were whispered. "Why are you whispering?" He lowered his voice as well - you never knew with Sherlock Holmes around.

"Test to see how good his hearing is. No normal human would be able to hear this conversation three rooms away." Sherlock's eyes were possitively beaming with joy, excitement.

Greg shook his head. "Look at you all dashing about, it's not decent."

"Who cares about decent? Five peope dead, Lestrade, and now we've got a survivor! We need to figure out what's the difference between him and the others. Is it genetics, the circumstances, anything else? I need to gather more data, and quickly."

"Sherlock, you need to remember that this is still a man you're talking about, a human being. You can't just do endless tests on him, understood?"

The man shrugged his understanding. "Yeah, yeah. I'll feed him as well. So what did you give him? Did he eat everything? Or did he refuse some of the types of meat you brought?"

"You should really ask him this yourself, Sherlock, you're moving in with the guy." Greg shrugged. He hated the fact that his best friend was moving in with a guy that wasn't him. He had space for him, he could help him too. He couldn't help but wonder if the amnesia John had suffered was still going on. What if he still didn't remember him? Or worse, what if the amnesia would never go away? It could be a werewolf thing to protect the people they care about. Greg shrugged. He'd find out eventually.

"Yes, right." Sherlock mumbled. "I need to pick up his suitcase from his home and move it to Baker Street, you should keep him here a bit longer while I arrange all that and then I'll come to pick him up again. Yes." He was grinning to himself as he got back on his feet abruptly and stalked towards the door. "I'm back in half an hour." The detective said before he disappeared onto the street.

 

*

 

John desperately wanted to pretend he didn't hear the conversation, but no matter how hard he tried, the questions that Sherlock had asked were the same ones that were floating through his own mind. He wasn't stupid, John, and he knew that perfectly well, even though it wasn't hard for him to admit that Sherlock was infinitaly more clever than him. If he couldn't admit that, then that was his own problem. But hearing those questions said out loud was something completely different. That made it all so real somehow.

As soon as he was sure that Sherlock had left the house, John slowly emerged from the bathroom, dressed in the shirt and jeans that Greg had brought him. He was grateful for this man, even though he still didn't quite remember who he was to him. Probably his best friend. It's like he knew the person, and their type of relationship was on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it, just like the smell before.

 He found Greg still standing in the kitchen, staring at the mess. Suddenly he felt embarassed about it. He had penetrated this man's home, his hospitality and yet all he seemed to do was make a mess of things. Maybe he had even destroyed their friendship. He mumbled his apologies before he fell onto his knees on the ground and started cleaning up. It took Greg a moment to realize what he was doing but soon enough, the DI was next to him on the ground, helping him. John smiled appreciative and the men continued to clean up in a companiable silence.

Once the kitchen was back to the state John had found it in earlier that morning, the two of them moved to the living room. Greg turned on the tv and both men pretended to watch it. John was trying hard to fight the urge to put his hands over his ears and block the noise out. The tv was barely any louder than it usually was, and yet he got a headache simply from listening to it. Greg must've noticed, but a few minutes later, he turned the volume down.

The situation didn't change until half an hour later, the bell rang once again. This time, Greg was the one who got up first and ran to open the door. John stayed put and heard Sherlock's soft baritone float towards him. The two men were whispering once again, so John figured that they didn't want him to hear it.

"Is he ready to leave yet?" Sherlock sounded impatient, like he couldn't wait to take the man away to his secret lair and do all these tests on him.

"Sherlock, Jesus, you have to remember to ask permission before you do tests, okay? And you have to make sure he eats enough, I don't know if his eating patterns have changed or not, but he usually doesn't eat a lot. Not unless you force him anyway." The list of how to take care of him grew longer and longer and John got the feeling that he wasn't in fact human, but more like a pet passed on from one owner to another.

If it was possible, Sherlock sounded even more annoyed and impatient when he replied: "Try to act human around him, got it."

John could almost imagine the eyeroll that accompanied the sentence and a small smile appeared on his lips. He turned on the sofa to see what the two of them were up to and then he remembered they were still at the door. God, he had had the feeling they were right behind him and he was an idiot.

Five minutes later, when Greg had finally reached the end of his list, he and Sherlock entered the living room. John faked a smile, hoping it didn't radiate 'I heard everything you just said and I am not happy with it.'

"Ready to leave, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock smiled back, his eyes telling him 'Oh I know you heard that and I'm quite excited about that.'

"John, please." The smile turned a bit more genuine. "And yes, I'm ready."

He turned to Greg and hugged the man - but like men usually do, not a girly hug. His smile now almost reached his eyes as he said: "Thank you for finding me and the clothes and the food. I appreciate it. Maybe we could go for a drink sometime soon?"

Greg smiled widely. "Of course. You have my number, let me know when you're free."

John nodded and let the man go. He turned and nodded again at Sherlock. "Alright then, let's go to Baker Street."

 

*

 

Sherlock was positively thrilled during the cab ride to Baker Street. It wasn't that far, but he couldn't wait to be alone with the new werewolf and figure out what he could and couldn't do. He kept throwing glances at John, who was staring out of the window, obviously lost in thought. Sherlock tried to come up with more questions he would have to find the answer to in the next few days. Things like the change. Did he have control over it or did it simply happen? Then again: full moon or not? He knew that the soldier had changed earlier today, but that could perfectly well be because of the bite and the lack of food Greg had told him about. The Wolf inside the man must've been quite hungry.

Sherlock grinned softly as his mind went over the events from the night before. John had told him he smelled like home to him which was odd, because he wasn't anyone's home, he never had been. He had no idea how to even be nice to people, let alone someone who's recently been attacked. He couldn't help but think that John was actually doing pretty well under the circumstances, considering that he was after all basically assaulted and forced into this new life style.

Suddenly, he found himself with a lot more respect for the man. He was stronger and tougher than he gave him credit for, but then again, he was a soldier. He invaded Afghanistan. He shrugged and when he noticed that they were around the corner of where he lived, he briefly touched John's arm and said: "We're almost there."

John flinched at the contact but quickly recovered by nodding.

Interesting, Sherlock thought, so there was something left of the attack in the street. With a mischievous glimmer in his eyes, Sherlock watched the cab pull to a halt in front of his flat, he payed and then he got out, waiting for John to come out as well.

John glanced briefly at him, avoiding any physical contact - he was so different when he was alone with him than when Lestrade was around. He would have to look into this - so Sherlock gestured at the door. He observed as John knocked on the door. The soldier must've heard something because suddenly, his body was fully alert and ready to kill if necessairy.

The door was opened quite abruptly and there was Mrs. Hudson, smiling widely. "Sherlock." She cooed fondly. "And you must be John."

He noted that John still hadn't moved or changed his body language. Maybe he should warn Hudders that she should take a few steps back. He opened his mouth to say something when John turned towards him, his eyes flickering gold. Suddenly, Sherlock remembered what Lestrade had said to him.

_If his eyes turn gold, he's about to change._

Oh shit. Sherlock looked down to the floor and held his hands out to John to show that he was unarmed. In the meantime, he tried to communicate to Mrs. Hudson that she had to move from where she was and hide somewhere in her kitchen. She got the message and soon disappeared. The consulting detective swallowed tightly as he was now the one who held John's main focus. He had to do this right or he was screwed.

"Alright, John, that was Mrs. Hudson, our landlady. I now realize that I should've told you about her, but she's not a threat. You can relax again." He glanced up, hoping to see that something had changed, that the gold had gone, but no such luck. In fact, Sherlock could see John's body change.

Oh shit, he thought again. He couldn't change here in the street, in full sight. He did something risky and pushed the man inside and then closed the door so that every view from outside was blocked. This action, however, made John growl in annoyance. Sherlock glanced up again and quickly noticed how John's face was now that of a wolf - and he was continuing to change. He watched the rest of the change with fascination, but he had to turn his head around when he watched John fall on the ground on his four paws and howl in pain when the tail grew out of his lower back.

When the change was complete, John turned to him, growling, all humanity gone. _Shit_. Sherlock once again averted his gaze and held his hands up in defence. Please don't kill me, was all he could think about. Please don't kill me.


End file.
